


Medicinal Meat

by zombified_queer



Category: AH HE'S SICK (short film)
Genre: Anal Sex, Other, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Temperature Play, amab reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: All there is to do is to fold your hands in your lap and wait and hope it's not Sleglanian Smeasles. A guy in the apartments across the street from you had it and burnt the apartment complex to the ground. So, hopefully, it's not Sleglanian Smeasles.
Relationships: Hat Doctor/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Medicinal Meat

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to formally apologize to Yugo Limbo for making this.

Through the waiting room's speakers, tinny jazz loops over and over again on itself. How long have you been waiting here? An hour? Fifteen minutes? There's no clock in the waiting room. No magazines either.

All there is to do is to fold your hands in your lap and wait and hope it's not Sleglanian Smeasles. A guy in the apartments across the street from you had it and burnt the apartment complex to the ground. So, hopefully, it's not Sleglanian Smeasles.

The lift grinds to a halt, making you pause your worries.

Hat Doctor removes his bloodied apron, smirking at you. "What can I do for ya?"

You point to yourself.

Hat Doctor nods. "You're the only one here."

So you summarize everything: your symptoms, what you think you might have, even the bus ride to the little shop. You manage to cut yourself off before you go off about how much you stared at the nurse's teeth.

Hat Doctor mumbles something you don't quite catch. So you ask. 

"Come into the meat locker," he says. "It's important."

You have a bad feeling about this, but you join him in the depths of the meat locker. He's too smug not to be plotting something, but you're focused on the chill. Your breath curls in front of your face in short, white clouds. You fold your arms over your chest, trying to trap some heat.

Whatever Hat Doctor's wearing must be insulating him from the cold. He doesn't react to the drop in temperature at all. 

"I gotta warn you," Hat Doctor says, "this is gonna cost you."

Of course. When you'd looked up your symptoms, your computer warned you about the steep cost. So you reach into your pocket, hand Hat Doctor a wad of cash. He counts the money with a smirk.

"Alright. Get up on the table." 

You ask, unsure about some of the stains on the table.

"If I killed you, it'd be bad for business." Hat Doctor busies himself with changing his gloves. Before you can catch a glimpse of his hands, he's pulled on blue nitrile. "I gotta protect my good name."

That's a fair point. So you get up on the table, laying back. The chill seeps through your clothes. You wish you'd brought a jacket as the cold seeps into your bones.

Before you can complain, Hat Doctor leaps up, agile as a cat, and straddles your hips. He smugly grinds himself against your hips.

And your cock twitches.

He must have felt it through that skintight suit. It feels—though you're not entirely sure—like latex.

Hat Doctor unzips your jeans, only enough to pull your half-hard cock out, exposed to the chill of the meat locker. Hissing, you realize you're into the cold feeling, the warmth seeping through Hat Doctor's exam gloves. That gets you harder. 

He drizzles lube over your cock, the fluid frigid. But Hat Doctor strokes, warming it as he makes sure everything is slick. He does something excellent with both hands that almost makes you cum, but he grasps your cock at the base, only allowing you to drip precum.

"Not yet," he says firmly. "We haven't gotten to the good part."

You ask. Hat Doctor smirks. He reaches down to unzip his suit, drawing the zipper between his thighs and freeing his own hard cock. It's small compared to your own, and you're compelled to jerk him off.

"No touching me unless I tell you to," Hat Doctor says, swatting your hand away. "You just lay back and relax."

You drop your hand down, mumbling something along the lines of _yes, sir._ There’s something arousing about Hat Doctor taking control. Your cock twitches against his thigh. He’s so warm.

Hat Doctor takes your cock in hand, guiding it to his hole. For a moment, you think it won't fit. He's a tiny man. But he takes your cock all the way to the base without a moment of hesitation.

"What, you think you're big?" Hat Doctor taunts. "You're not even average."

He's so smug, straddling you, cock taken to the base. If it wasn't for your cock twitching, surrounded by warmth, and the slight bulge to the doctor’s abdomen, you wouldn't think you're even in him. 

Hands on your chest, pinning you down and giving him more leverage, he makes a show of riding your cock. Everytime his hips meet yours, there's that swell of his abdomen. Knowing your cock might not be the biggest, but big enough to do that makes you a little smug.

"Don't get cocky," he scoffs.

Involuntarily, you jerk your hips upward, thrusting into him. It gets a couple stifled groans out of him. His face heats up as you thrust up into him.

You mumble a question about touching him, jerking his small cock while fucking him. 

What he replies is something incoherent, vaguely yes and only tangentially no. But you ask again, get a nod of the head. So you fist his cock. You stifle a giggle at how large your hand is in comparison.

"Don't laugh!" He slows himself, teasing you. You’re so close it aches. "Don't you dare laugh at me."

And you apologize, continue stroking his cock. 

Apology accepted, Hat Doctor rides with a certain determination. He presses harder into your chest, getting rougher. 

You open your mouth to say something, warn him, but you cum before you have a chance. And you make a strangled groan, You open and close your mouth a couple times, wordless and warm. 

And Hat Doctor's cum in your hand. 

He pants, shivering. Once he catches his breath, he gets up, tossing a wet rag at you. 

Cleaning your hand off, you watch him zip his suit back up, adjust things to make it look like he didn't just have sex.

Looking over his shoulder, he tells you, "You're cured."

There's an implicit _get out_ under his words. 

You fix your clothes, get off the table. It was absolutely worth the money. But you return to the shop-and-waiting-room in silence. The nurse stands stock still behind the counter. 

So you step outside, onto the street.

What were you sick with again?


End file.
